I just swab my arm and administer the cocktail, a booster for my
radiation immunization. The taste of brass fills my mouth in seconds,
and I know that the cocktail has flooded my system. With this stuff
burbling inside, I can stare down three sieverts without blinking, or,
more importantly, losing my immune system, teeth, hair, and intestines.

When I finish with my dose, I grab the skin on the newbie’s arm, swab
her and shoot her up, too. “Ow!” She jumps and rubs her arm. I watch
carefully to see her smack her lips at the taste. “You could’ve warned
me.”

“No time,” I say, doctoring Ken and the others just as abruptly. We’re
pressed, and they know it.

We’re all nice and anodized on the inside at 8:12. We’re waiting for
8:16, or thereabouts. There aren’t any atomic clocks in 1945, so all
times are approximate, internally speaking. And from here on in, there’s
no point speaking any other way.